


Marriage is for Old People

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Series: Modern Verse [1]
Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Sunne in Splendour - Sharon Kay Penman, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Awkward Flirting, Childhood Friends, F/M, Infant Death Mention, Minor Edward IV of England, Minor Elizabeth Woodville, Minor George Plantagenet Duke of Clarence/Isabel Neville, Past Character Death, Showers, Sibling Rivalry, Teen Crush, Walking In On Someone Showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 09:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: George and Isabel are celebrating their second wedding anniversary, but Anne is less than enjoying it. After a fight with her sister, she finds someone else who shares her opinion.





	Marriage is for Old People

**11 July 1984**

In truth, it was just like them to do such a thing. Only George and Isabel would throw a party for their  _ second  _ anniversary, a sign that promised parties to suffer through for years to come. Anne’s sister sparkled in the spotlight, not yet twenty, and lacking the eyebags and wrinkles that accompanied children. Still, she looked  _ old,  _ Anne thought. No matter how many times that stupid Cyndi Lauper song played and she wiggled her hips along to the tunes, Isabel hardly seemed like a girl anymore. She was Anne’s grown-up sister, married and moved out with the accompanying dead-eyed look. Anne sunk further into the obnoxious orange couch, almost certainly George’s choice.

 

Isabel danced over, grinding the heels of her shoes into the ground as she did so. Her hair was curled and teased, and bright make-up lined her eyes.

“Annie,” she said, taking a sip of champagne. Anne noted the bright lipstick mark left on the glass. “Why don’t you come outside? It’s a lovely day.” Bright sunlight pierced the clouds in violent yellow streaks, leaving designs on the pavement outside. She’d been forced to pull off her sweater, and she hugged her middle, staring at the crisp television, with the second-biggest screen she had ever seen. “Everyone else is out in the garden.”

 

“I’m cold,” Anne said stiffly.

“Annie, it’s twenty-six degrees.”

“Freezing,” Anne continued. “Far too cold to go outside. Besides, I’m watching telly.” 

Isabel snorted. “You have an interest in aerobics?”

“Oh, certainly. Thinking I might take it to the Olympics, come to think of it,” Anne said. 

“Must you be so miserable?” Isabel demanded. “It’s my wedding anniversary!”   
“You already had one last year,” Anne retorted.

“That’s how anniversaries  _ work _ , Anne, they happen every year,” Isabel said, her voice growing shriller by the moment. Anne didn’t move a muscle. She could feel her sister’s eyes boring into her. Long legs pointed at strange angles on the television screen. Her jaw clicked. Chatter drifted in through the French doors. The clock ticked. Anne rolled her shoulders. They could both play the card, should they feel the need. Richard Neville’s ghost hung between them, staring them both down. Daring them. Anne kept her eyes fixed on the stretching muscles and smiley women.  _ Father wouldn’t want us to fight.  _ She could’ve said it in her sleep.

 

“Father died for George and I to be married.”

 

Anne’s head whipped around. Isabel’s lips were still parted. Smudged slightly, where they’d kissed the champagne flute. The back of Anne’s throat burned. Red hot, as if irons were pressed against it. Her chest felt tight. Her hands closed around her discarded sweater. Pulled back. The clothing article went flying, and hit her sister right in the face.

 

“Annie!” she shrieked. Anne launched herself off the couch, grabbing at the sweater as Isabel threw it to one side, keenly aware of the sweat stains on the plain white singlet she wore. 

“Don’t be such a bitch!” Anne yelled. She tripped and slammed onto the carpeted floor. Isabel bent down beside her. An elbow hit her ribs, and Anne fell onto her side, watching as Isabel crawled and grabbed the sweater.

“If you’re going to use it as a weapon, you can’t have it,” she scolded, in her best imitation of their mother. “You can explain why you’re wearing what you are.”   
“Give it back!” Anne screeched, rolling and aiming a kick at her sister. Isabel was the  _ worst.  _ She was five years Anne’s senior, and beautiful, and universally adored, it seemed. If she frogmarched Anne out to the garden clad in flared jeans with loose threads and just a singlet, Anne would be grounded for a  _ month _ , at the very least.

“Be more ladylike!” Isabel hissed, climbing to her feet.

“Shut up!” Anne yelled, kicking her sister’s stupid heeled shoes. Isabel tumbled backwards, hitting the floor with a  _ bang.  _ The sweater skittered away. Anne crawled over her sister, ignoring Isabel’s grunts and whines, and grabbed it. Victorious, she raised the sweater above her head and jumped up to her feet.

 

“Is everything alright, girls?” A blonde woman with a bouncing baby poked her head around the corner, wearing an easy smile and her curls loose. Anne froze. The sleeves of her sweater hit her in the face. Isabel looked up from her position on the floor, and from the corner of her eye, Anne saw her turn pale.  _ Hah.  _

 

“Anne was just being silly,” Isabel said quickly, clambering to her feet. She and Elizabeth were both married to the York brothers, though George had changed his name to Clarence to reflect his business. Anne would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been so frightened. Of  _ course  _ Isabel wanted to pretend she and Elizabeth were the adults.  _ Dumbass.  _ Elizabeth looked between the two of them, and raised an eyebrow. Baby Ed waved his tiny fists. Anne wished she could hold him, but Elizabeth never let her. He was so cute, with a big round face, and light blonde hair. 

 

“Now, now, girls,” Elizabeth said, and Anne lowered her arms, hugging the sweater to her chest. “Isabel, why don’t you go into the powder room and fix your makeup, hm? It’s a hot day. And Anne, if you’d like to play, both Bess and Cecily are in the yard and would  _ love  _ someone to play with.” She adjusted the babe in her arms. Heat rose to Anne’s cheeks. Cecily was  _ two.  _ “Now, I’d best be off to change Ed here. Isabel, is it okay if I use the old nursery?” Without waiting for a response, she set off down the hallway. A lump swelled in Anne’s throat, and she turned to her sister, her breath hitching.

 

“Isabel, I -”

“Never mind.” Isabel stormed past her, wiping at her face, and Anne watched her run down the hall, in the other direction. Anne blinked, and looked down at the sweater. She was even sweatier than she’d been before, and knew she would stink if she put it on now. But she had no perfume, and wasn’t about to interrupt Isabel and the tears she’d no doubt be crying. The nursery had been for her baby, not for Elizabeth’s. 

 

She left the living room and turned down the hall, her feet padding across the bright yellow carpet. Photographs hung on the wall; a picture of Isabel and George on their wedding day, her with a smile not meeting her eyes and him with a smile fuelled by alcohol. Anne still remembered how badly he’d smelt on the day, and the way he leered at her behind Isabel’s back. Another photo of them, a year later, posing elegantly in their best clothes, a hand on her stomach, almost protective, only a couple months after. No doubt they’d be getting another made, to document their lack of progress. It made Anne feel sick.

 

Lost in her thoughts, she tugged at the bathroom handle, twisting it and pushing it open. A thick cloud of steam ensnared her senses. Her eyes watered, and she coughed, putting a hand over her mouth. The air was hot and sticky. Anne bit her lip, hard. The door hadn’t been locked - maybe someone had just been in there recently. It could happen. She turned and closed the door, making sure that  _ she  _ locked it, and took a few steps through the steam. It was a large bathroom, considering that it was only for guests and visitors, with a bath and shower combination but a spacious sink. Anne waved her hand in front of her face.

 

A dark-haired figure emerged from the steam, and Anne froze once more, her heart in her throat.  _ Oh, shit.  _ Her feet woulcn’g move, her socks sdre wet and stuck to the ground. Her fingertips throbbed. Richard looked up, a white towel slung around his waist and another stretched tight in his hands, curling around the back of his neck. His eyes widened. So did hers.

“Anne?” he asked. It was the most her fifteen-year-old self had ever seen of a guy, and her chest tightened. His skin was pale but he was muscled better than she would’ve expected, and he had dark curls and she thought she might faint. Her eyes flickered downwards, to his thigh, and then she realised it must look like she was looking at his -  _ oh shit, oh shit.  _

 

“Doorunlocked,” she said quickly, bright red, and her eyes roamed, unsure of where to rest.

“Ah,” Richard said. “You get used to not locking it when you live alone.” Anne wouldn’t know. She had never lived alone. But Richard had graduated and moved out and had his own flat and did all those grown-up things. He could  _ drive.  _ She couldn’t think of anything to say. She could feel his eyes on her. Maybe marriage was worth all the bad bits, if you got to see a guy’s chest every day.

“Why are you showering now?” she said, finally. “Everyone is out in the garden.”   
“Late night.” She wasn’t stupid, she knew what that meant by now. Booze and drugs and cigarettes and dancing and kissing in dark corners. Stuff her father would have never let her and Isabel do. But the York boys were boys, obviously, and so they got to do all sorts of things. 

“Oh.”

“Studying,” he clarified. “I’m taking summer courses. And Anne, you’re not in the garden.” She stared at the tiles. She had never taken much notice of them before. They had weird designs, almost like flowers. White flowers, blooming against a nauseating brown colour. Of course. The York roses. She wondered if George or Isabel had chosen them. “Why are you in here?”

 

She pinched the skin of her bare arms, wishing she could disappear. How was she supposed to tell him she reeked to all hell and needed to shower? Could he see the pit stains on her singlet? She flattened her elbows against her sides, hoping to hide them. “I, um. Um. I was going to - shower. I don’t want to - Isabel and I had a fight.” Father would’ve had a fit, he always wanted them to present a united front, but he was dead and buried anyway. And this was Richard. Even though he was taller and  _ really, really  _ hot now, he was still the same Richard who had spent lots of time at her house and had always wiped her tears when Isabel said something mean. He said he understood, because George could be like that sometimes. 

 

“Ah. Isabel,” he nodded. “Who would’ve thought, my brother and your sister?” It was enough to make Anne giggle.

“A perfect match,” she said. Isabel had played kiss-chasey with George a thousand times until their father found out, and put an end to it. She’d never caught him. Richard rolled his eyes, but she could see his smile. She wanted to touch it. With her lips. Obviously. God, why was she  _ such a  _ -?

“Mr. Neville would be proud,” Richard said. He’d always called her father ‘Mr. Neville’, to differentiate between the three Richards that ran in their small circle. “Two years.”   
“No, he wouldn’t,” Anne said, her lips turning down. “He’d want a grandson.” Even when Isabel had had her little girl, he hadn’t been satisfied. Anne felt sure he hadn’t truly cried at the little funeral with the tiny coffin. 

 

“You don’t like your family much,” Richard said. “Do you, Anne?” Her breath caught.

“Not really, no.” There was something about his dark eyes and dark curls and the little tufts of hair on his chest that made her want to tell him everything. “Do you like yours?” She couldn’t spill her guts, she  _ couldn’t.  _

“They’re my brothers.” Richard had finished towelling his neck and chest, and now draped the object over a rack. Anne wondered if it would be weird if she used the same towel. It definitely would be. She was  _ hopeless,  _ wasn’t she? “I like them very much. But they’re my brothers. I wish we weren’t so different. They’re very -” he waved his hand, “‘let’s-get-blind-drunk’ party.”

“My sister’s very ‘garden party’,” Anne said. “Not quite compatible.”

“What kind of party would you want, Anne?” His eyes were a bright blue, and fixed on her gaze. Her breaths turned shallow.  _ Answer. Don’t look like an idiot.  _

“Maybe...no party?” she tried. The ghost of a laugh crossed his face, and her heart soared. And it was a true answer. “I’d rather just be with a small group of people I really like.”  _ Like you,  _ she wanted to say.

“Isn’t that what a party is supposed to be?” he asked. Anne shrugged.  _ Idiot.  _ “I know she’s a pain, Anne, but Isabel does really like you.”

“She’s horrid,” Anne said. “And she’s old now. Married.”

“Am I old?” Anne paused. Richard was only a year younger than Isabel, but he was still a student, not married nor interested, and he still had round cheeks and spoke the same way he had when he’d been Anne’s age. He didn’t try to address her mother as ‘Anne’ or stomp around in click-clacky boots. 

 

Richard bent over, and she could see the bones of his spine, curving slightly to one side. George had sometimes laughed at him for it, but it didn’t really do anything, it hadn’t even been bad enough for a brace. He pulled on a plain shirt, and it glided across his pale skin. She lowered her eyes, trying not to look. 

“You’re not old,” she said. The sides of her throat were stuck together. “I’m sorry for bursting in on you, I should -”

“I’ll go,” Richard said, and moved past her, holding the towel-skirt tightly around him. “I’m sorry, Anne. I should’ve left sooner, not had a conversation when I was in such a state.” She turned around, watching him head towards the door.

“No, Richard, it’s - I’m sorry.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder, back at her. Swallowing, she put her sweater on the bench, now clad only in her jeans and singlet.

“Will I see you in the garden?” he asked. “It’d be nice to have someone else to talk to, than our siblings. I imagine they’ve all been on the drink.” Anne nodded fiercely.

“You will,” she said. He opened the door, stepped through it, and closed it, leaving her alone in the steam-filled room. Anne blushed to the roots of her hair and hugged herself, smiling.


End file.
